Your fearless mind is like a stone
That rolls along unfettered dreams,
They are the sinews of your peace.
It rolls alone.
You’re seeking for the final thing –
The gun in your abandoned room,
Once coming back to its cold doom
And getting wings…
I contemplate your way and so –
You’re just a son of fancy. Know
You never cease to roll along,
To roll alone…
Fancy
© Copyright: Аштери, 2010
Свидетельство о публикации №110070404198
Свидетельство о публикации №110070404198
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